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Overview
The Journey of Faith is a tale of his spiritual and physical journey and events that he encountered as a renegade priest with some viewpoints and observations of religion and history. Hopefully, the reader will gain some insight into the world of spirituality for the years to come and will be motivated to have a closer connection to God and not to religion as such. There are many questions asked but the answers are up to the reader. Richard Money doesn't expect Journey of Faith to be a record-breaking novel. In fact, the only reason it is being written is because so many people have told Richard over the years that he has a book in him. When is he going to get it out? Well, here it comes, for better or for worse. Journey of Faith is comprised of many incidents in his life that he believes may show not what he has done, but what he has become with the Grace of God. If you are looking for a religious experience, we don't think you will find it here, although you may. We are not making any promises. Journey of Faith will stimulate the mind to see the real messages of Jesus. What makes this book unique is the ingredients of life, and the events of a married priest after being married, and the training of priests of sixty years ago. If you are seeking the meaning of life and the working of the Holy Spirit this book will truly bring light into your life. All people seeking the Holy Spirit in their lives this is for you. Not only the religious but those on the fence, as it were who may doubt the workings of God in their lives. This book is to be a bridge between God and Man, and to see the manifestations of God in our lives. This is our life in the Journey of Faith.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9791221301502 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | RWG Publishing |
| Publication date: | 02/21/2022 |
| Sold by: | StreetLib SRL |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 413 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Early Years
It was 1938. Hitler was invading Poland but I didn’t care. I was busy being born to Richard and Mary Money. On March 2, Mom was giving me life in this world and seeing the light about which I will explain later. Dad was feeling no pain and I don’t remember much about this memorable event either. Only Mom remembered the pain and let everyone know about it for almost ninety years. Especially me. I think there must have been a touch of Jewish mother in Mom. She loved guilt and didn’t miss a chance to throw it out. It seemed like guilt and pain were her life’s blood. More later.
Richard F. (Dad) was a complete orphan by the age of five. He was born in England of an English ship purser and an Italian woman named Sylvia Gogna. He lived in Italy in his early years with a grandfather and then in an orphanage until immigrating to this country when he was fifteen. He came by himself, by boat to New Orleans, and then traveled by train to St. Louis where he spent his entire life.
Upon arrival in St. Louis he did a variety of odd jobs, and as near as I can determine, living on the streets and working as he said “for food and a place to sleep.” I have never heard of all the things he did to survive but I am sure his life was interesting in those years. A brother, Al, had immigrated earlier but could be of little help to Dad. He worked in a bank and had only recently married. There was little money for either of them.
It must have taken quite a bit for Dad to come to this country. He was the youngest of four children, three boys and a girl, and he never saw his oldest brother and his sister again in his lifetime. Communication was sparse between them and it was mainly Mom who encouraged him to write, which he seldom did. There was little family connection due to the fact that his father died when Dad was two and his mother when he was four. He was the youngest and had little memory of anyone except his grandfather.
In talking to some of the people that knew him, he was quite a character in those days, and definitely a ladies’ man. At least until he met Mom. His nickname was Bronco. Now when I heard this for the first time I wasn’t sure what it inferred, but I knew it wasn’t defining Dad as a psalms–singing churchgoer. This was born out in later years. Of course since I was his firstborn son, and as I was told, his little companion, I was dubbed “little Bronco”.
Mary (Mom) was born to Nicola Daniele and Dusolina Torrini in 1910 and, although born in this country, was conceived in Italy. Nick came to this country and went back to Italy for his wife and two other children. Mom was the youngest and seemed to lead a sheltered life as far as I can tell. She was working in a shoe factory when she met Dad. They met at a church club, and according to her, he was someone she didn’t expect to fall in love with. I really don’t think Dad was looking for a relationship with God when he met Mom either. I believe his sights were set on something more mundane.
Richard and Mary were married in 1934 at the end of the Depression. That Depression mentality stayed with them for the greater part of their lives, and to a degree, was handed down to their children. This wasn’t all bad, but by today’s standards it is a real oddity. We don’t do without much today and if we have to, it isn’t fair. We deserve everything we desire and we can’t live without things.
When Mom and Dad met he was driving a truck for a grocery company, a job he held for almost forty five years. Apart from his odd jobs when arriving in this country, he drove a truck for all of his life. First he drove for an Italian import-export company and then for a full line grocery company.
My first impressions in this life were of salamis and cheeses hanging above a sawdust floor and huge barrels of olives with the smell of olive oil permeating everything. I remember being held by my feet by Dad over a barrel of olives and being allowed to grab all the olives that my little hands could hold. Heaven! To this day my children swear that I sweat garlic and olive oil. I think they are right. I lust for the stuff! These were the War Years, and although I wasn’t aware of what really was going on, the atmosphere was tense. I remember the gold star being hung in windows and I knew this meant something important. I was more concerned with the iceman who came to deliver ice to my Grandmother’s house. He came with a horse-drawn wagon, slinging a huge hunk of ice over his shoulder resting on a burlap sack and deposited it on the doorstep. This was put on the top tray of the little brown ice-a-box (as it was referred to by my Grandmother) to cool the food. Water collected on the bottom tray on a daily schedule. Freezers were as yet unheard of. The trick was to gather the shavings of ice as the iceman cut the huge twenty five, thirty, or even fifty pounds, which was to be delivered. Or, if we were really lucky we could ride on the back of the wagon as he moved to the next house.
The milkman had the same delivery routine. A horse-drawn wagon, but his horse was more intelligent. It would move to the next house by the milkman merely whistling. There was not an abundance of cars. Only a few had them.
We were lucky Dad had one, but it wasn’t driven all the time. We only took the car out for Sunday rides and special occasions. Gas was rationed and although only 10 cents a gallon, it was hard to get.
We lived a few blocks from my Grandmother and Grandfather, my Aunt Louise and Uncle Fidelis and six first cousins. They all lived with my Grandpa and Grandma Daniels so it was easy to see almost the whole family at one time. My Aunt Julia and Uncle Louis, called Zia and Zio, were only a block away from Grandma and Grandpa’s also. It was very convenient. The only family that was seen maybe once or twice a year was my Uncle Al’s family, which consisted of his wife, Florence, and two daughters. They lived on the other end of town and were not seen except on the holidays. Grandpa was unemployed, and I think this was by choice. I only remember him working for a short time. He had better things to do. He would sit in the backyard and feed the birds and the squirrels. He would spend the fall months gathering nuts for the squirrels (as if they couldn’t do it themselves) and feed corn to the pigeons.
The shed in the backyard of Grandpa and Grandma’s housed a horse, which was owned by a ragman. This learned gentleman would traverse the alleys looking in ash pits and yelling “Rags, bottles, bones!” He housed his horse and wagon in the shed for a monthly rental fee. This was my first contact with rural life in the city. It was also my first contact with methane gas. Grandpa was well versed in the ways of nature and could tell when the horse (which at times was endowed with a great deal of flatulence) was about to release this gas into the atmosphere. He would quickly strike a match on his overalls and when placing it in the proper position behind that horse, we would all be treated to the wonders of a natural gas jet. Blue flame and all. What a wonder! Grandma did not think much of the trick at all.
Grandma spent most of her time in the kitchen, it seems. She would make a chicken soup that would curl the stomachs of most of the present populace. She made it out of fresh chicken and nothing was wasted. In went the head and feet and you could cut it with a knife if need be. But talk about healthy!
This was the fare recommended by their doctor to cure what ailed them. She would also make large loaves of polenta, which was cut with a string when it had cooled sufficiently. The Old World was always present and Italian was the language of both my grandparents. If I had known then what I know now, I would have learned the language. But Mom and Dad spoke English and since I was an American neither they nor I saw any need to speak Italian. To this day I can understand most of it, but have a difficult time speaking it.
I mentioned ash pits earlier. This was the Eighth Wonder of the World. To those who don’t know what an ash pit is I will explain. It was a square concrete bin into which furnace ashes and garbage and whatever else one did not want was thrown. It was cleaned periodically by the ash or trash man who came in a wagon and hauled it away. The trick if you were a kid was to rummage through the pit before it was cleaned out and come up with the treasures that abounded there.
This could be an old alarm clock, picture frame, piece of pipe, old pot or pan, or even something that looked so good you couldn’t pass it up even if you didn’t know what it was. When it was brought home it had to be hidden for the most part or some adult would throw it in his or her own ash pit. Many ten-minute walks home from school would take almost an hour because the route was through alleys with frequent ash pit stops. I’m sure today that kids have lost this thrill.
Another wonderful event was the game of bottle caps. The local tavern would be contacted and a bag of bottle caps would be secured at absolutely no cost. These were thrown in such a way that they would dip, slice, or flare up depending upon the way they were thrown. The trick was to hit the cap with a boom stick thus constituting a hit. Just like baseball but there were no broken windows, etc. Today I don’t believe a kid could go into a tavern without some fearing child endangerment, thinking that they only wanted a beer. The thought never crossed our minds that we could even desire a beer. That was for adults and we were too young at the time. However, things did change.
Now for cigarettes. That was something that was O.K., but they were hard to get. We had to satisfy ourselves with what was known to us then as “lady cigars.” Catalpa pods. They were dried and cut into cigarette size and smoked with great relish. They tasted terrible but we thought they were really something. I remember the time that my Aunt Louise asked if we were smoking lady cigars. When we replied to the negative she calmly led us to the back porch and told us to look on top of the shed. We had carefully cut the pods, and looking for a place to dry them, laid them out symmetrically on top of the shed where they were quite visible to the naked eye from the second story where my cousins lived. We were undone. “We” most of the time was my older male cousin who was one of the six cousins with whom I spent most of my time.
Where I lived was, in those days, considered a very high-class place. The streets were lined with trees and the houses consisted of single-family dwellings and four family flats. We lived in a four family flat with three rooms, consisting of living room, bedroom, and kitchen. Very cozy, to say the least. I really wonder how Mom and Dad had more children after me. Maybe that is the reason for four-year intervals between us all…it took a lot of guts and a great deal of planning to do the DEED since everyone slept in the same room. I moved to the living room foldout couch when I was fifteen. Boy, my own room – complete with a television and living room furniture!! Until then I was on a cot and my sisters were in a bunk bed.
There was no one my age within a couple of blocks of us so I spent a lot of time by myself. Mom was very protective and I could not go more than six houses in ether direction from our front door. This was in a safer day than we live in today. I was twelve before I could cross a major street. My cousin was crossing it at nine. I was really embarrassed but Mom would not give in to my pleadings at letting me grow up by at least crossing the street.
The main entertainment in our home in those days was, of course, the radio. After supper Dad would sit back in the easy chair, and when Mom was finished with the dishes (as we got older my sister and I did them with a great deal of fighting, as I remember) she would sit in the living room with Dad. At about 7 p.m. the entire family would retire and turn on the radio in the bedroom. At 9 p.m. it would be shut off and we were all expected to dutifully go to sleep. Dad got up at 5 a.m., so when he went to sleep we all went to sleep.
I don’t remember very many major traumas during those early years. I was not allowed to do very many things that other children my age were doing. First, there were not very many children my age, and secondly, Mom was very protective of me. Fighting with others was definitely not allowed, and even if I were picked on I would get in trouble if I fought back. Dad did not agree and taught me how to box. In fact, he even gave me a set of boxing gloves for my birthday when I was seven. The word got out in the neighborhood that the little Dago could not fight. So naturally, I was fair game. This did change after I disregarded my Mother’s injunction and won a pretty good fight with a neighborhood bully. No one really bothered me too much again.
The major upset in those years came one Sunday afternoon when Mom and Dad and I went to an air show at Lambert Field. There was to be a demonstration of parachuting and some of the latest air equipment of the day that was winning the war. This was, I believe, 1943 or 1944. I remember this even so clearly that it seems like yesterday. The DC-3’s came over the field and little white dots began to fall out from its sides. Paratroopers!! In real life! What a thrill and event for me. The excitement was building. Next on the program was to be a glider flight carrying the mayor and chaplain and some other dignitaries. A glider, of course, is an airplane without an engine. It was made of wood and towed behind a power-driven aircraft. When it was over its target, the towrope would be released and the glider would noiselessly glide to an open area delivering its cargo of men and machinery. It could not be picked up on radar because of its wooden construction and was becoming an important factor in the European war theater.
I can still see the dignitaries boarding the aircraft with the DC-3 taxiing down the runway, glider in tow. Both became airborne and flew away from the field becoming smaller as the distance increased. Then, circling, they began to head back to the field releasing the towrope as they passed overhead. As the rope fell from the glider’s nose, and it separated from the airplane, something went wrong. One wing tilted crazily upward and began to drift down to earth while the main body of the craft began to spiral down erratically, crashing into the runway around fifteen thousand yards from were we stood. The impact threw pieces of wood and debris in all directions and it was evident even to this young mind that no one could have lived through this.
The screams of people all around me still echo in my ears, as much as the visual trauma hangs in my memory. This event left its impact upon me for many years and still plays a part in my dislike of flying. Mom was particularly hysterical, as I remember, for the next couple days, although Dad took a calmer attitude. I think it bothered him but he did not let on. His English heritage did not allow Dad to demonstrate much emotion or feeling. This was something that I had to learn over the years.
As I recall it was at about this time that I expressed desire to be Pope. It seems that Pope Pius XII was born in March and since my birthday was in March, I came up with the idea that this might be my calling. There was much laughter about it by Uncles, Aunts and Dad, but as I recall, Mom was almost ecstatic. Yes, she said, I certainly could be Pope. After all, I was Italian. Do you get the idea that Mom was sort of religious and bigoted in those days? I believe it was my Uncle Fidelis who said that the word was not pope, but spelled with two o’s, and I had already made the grade. Mom did not care for this too much.
I don’t know how many people remember Victory Gardens, but I do. This was part of winning the war by growing your own food so that the men overseas could be taken care of. We planted radishes, lettuce, and beans for sure, but I don’t remember anything else that we could survive on. Looking back on it I believe it was more propaganda than a reality. We did have our own chicken that laid an egg now and then. This, I really thought, was great. It was kept in the garage behind the house but I don’t remember it lasting too long either. Dad was not much on livestock and pets. I wonder what became of it – Sunday dinner?
As far as food went, since there wasn’t much refrigeration, most items were bought on a daily basis and it was pretty much fresh. Mom or Grandma would go to the market, which was several blocks away and purchase what was needed for the next few days. Meat was kept on ice, as were some other perishables. We had a small Crosley refrigerator that was electric, but it didn’t hold much. I guess you could call it primitive by today’s standards.
On Sundays my Zia and Zio, Julia and Louis, would sometimes take us to buy fresh produce and chickens directly from the farm. This was usually someone that Zio Louis knew and had fished in their pond or hunted mushrooms on their place. He was a great mushroom hunter. It seems that this was his main claim to fame – that and the fact that he could play the guitar in his underwear and sing Calabrese folk songs and drink at the same time. He was also very astute at catching pigeons on the roof of his house and had Zia Julia cook them for us kids. This was akin to having our own little chicken or turkey. It wasn’t until later that I realized how bad they really tasted. It is amazing how childhood clouds reality at times.
I can still remember the red fat hens that were brought home from those trips to the country. They seem to represent the horn of plenty, and they were not treated lightly. Their demise was a wonder to behold. Grandpa would dispatch them with a twist of the wrist, which could seem cruel to some. Mom on the other hand, was much more delicate in her treatment of dispatch. She was only 4’ 11” and not very heavily built. And according to her, she did not have the ability or moral fiber to be so cruel to a bird, even though it was to be a meal for her family. She, instead, would very delicately place a broomstick upon the hapless victim’s neck, and then, grabbing its feet, stand on the broomstick yanking with a force that was worthy of King Kong. Needless to say, the chicken was a goner but it still provided us with the erratic flapping and bouncing, which to us kids, was the main event of the entire procedure. This activity of execution was carried on in the basement so no one could really know of my Mother’s prowess with the broomstick. To this day I’m not really sure if she enjoyed it or merely acted the part of doing what needed to be done to feed the family.
The basement of our home was different from what one would call a basement today. It had a coal bin. Now, for those who have no knowledge of coal or how it was used, let me describe the coal bin, furnace, and concomitant paraphernalia. Coal came in various grades. There was the briquette, much like the charcoal briquette we buy today, and there was a larger chunk than the briquette. These two were relatively easy to shovel and handle. As such they were more expensive than the type that we could afford. This was the boulder size block of coal that needed to be broken up to fit in the furnace. These huge blocks of black rock were dumped in the street in front of the house, and it was up to the resident to put it in the coal bin. If you were rich, the coal man would wheelbarrow it to the coal bin for you. This was not our lot, of course. Dad would wheel the coal into the coal bin, with me helping in a very small way, since the coal was sometimes bigger than me (or so it seemed). When it was time to be used he would break up the large boulders with a hammer, sending coal dust all over. I’m sure it is a miracle that not one of us contracted black lung disease by this procedure.
The furnace itself was a huge monster with arms extending in all directions. These arms, as I learned later, were the air pipes that radiated the hot air through the house.
A fire was started with paper and wood, and then when they were burning sufficiently, lumps of coal would be shoveled upon it. Once caught, the coal would burn for several hours and as it burned it would leave its ashes in the bottom portion of the furnace. Hence, the ash pit was one of my first jobs around the house. “Take out the ashes” was the cry that would send terror through my body. It was heavy work and not like taking out the trash today that kids still hate doing even though it may only weigh a fraction of coal ashes. In later years the furnace was converted to oil and it did have a convenience to it, but those early furnace years could leave you with a sense of self-sufficiency. You had to always watch for the furnace going out (which then made it very hard to light again) because it didn’t take long for the house to get cold. Even though it was banked at night, it needed to be attended to by 5 a.m. next morning and then again during the day. This was either Mom’s or my job.
The hot water heater was something also. It was a round canister with tubing running circularly through it. It had a bank of gas jets and pilot light. When the pilot light was lit and the bank of jets ignited, the coil that contained water would be heated. This really did not put out a great deal of hot water fast, and baths with hot water were duly regulated. Most of the time water was heated upon the gas stove, one pot at a time. In those coal-burning days one of the most important things for a kid to remember was to scrape off the black dust before you ate the snow. I guess we have progressed in our environmental development, but in those days you could at least see what was not good for you.
I feel sorry for the folks who never experienced the pungent smell of piles of burning leaves in the gutters of the streets in the fall. It was not only a beautiful sight and one which brought neighbors outside to chat, but the pall of smoke did not smell half as bad as the diesel smoke prevalent today in our streets. I honestly don’t think leaf burning was as bad as it is supposed to have been.
There is another thing that we miss today, the neighborhood gatherings on the front porches. Every evening after supper, weather permitting, the inhabitants of the houses and flats would sit on the front porch and exchange the events of the day. Perhaps one family would migrate to the neighbor’s for the evening, and the next evening they would switch locations. The adults would sit on the porch while the children played catch in the street or on the sidewalk, or played tag and hide and seek. There was a sense of community that is not present today for the most part. Everyone knew who was where, and whose kid was whose, and what he or she was doing or what he or she was not supposed to be doing. The grapevine or jungle drums of the neighborhood could not be beaten for keeping a young hellion from raising Cain around the neighborhood. Talk about neighborhood watch! I remember thumbing my nose at Roseanne Capp a couple of houses up the street one day. Before the sun set, my Mother knew about it and I was chastised for doing something dirty. Can you believe it? I didn’t even know what it meant but I was told what a dirty thing that was to do.
I wonder what would have happened to me if I had given her the bird!! (Of course, I had no idea of what that was either.)
There we lived was pretty close to the city limit. Six or seven blocks away were the beginnings of what we would call today, the suburbs. This consisted of small towns and houses with a lot of space between them. Not like where we lived. It seemed like once you got out of the city limit you were in the country. A block away from us was a family that had goats, and my earliest recollection in the mornings was being awakened by their bleating. This was an oddity and it didn’t last too long as the neighborhood developed.
Table of Contents
The Early Years
Healing
Call to the Seminary
The Healing Process
College Years
Healing Contradiction
Ordination and My First Assignment
The Reluctant Protestor
The Veil of Disease – Cancer
Canada
The Healing of Cancer
The Next Parish
Leaving
How to Cure A Cold
Jackie and Me
The Work of the Healer
Marital Life – The Real World
The Kingdom of God
The Evolution of Religion
Kansas City and Healing Seminar
The Love of God Named Jesus
Religion and Evolution
Was Jesus a Human Sacrifice?
Healing the Human Doubt
There Are Dreams and There Are Visions
Prayer
The Veil of Words
The Journey of a Renegade Priest to God
My Soul’s Journey to the Bridge